necer0s asked: You mentioned Castlevania, so: Trevor Belmont for the headcanon meme?
Buddy
you have answered the call and here are some headcanons about this
disaster for this headcanon meme. Disclaimer that I know NOTHING
about the games and this is 100% based on the show. Also, welcome to Latin Hour.
A: what I think realistically
Here are a set of three related headcanons
that are my ride-or-die Opinions about this show.
First of all, the Belmont family was
quite sizable—Belmont family proper, I’m sure there are any number of
illegitimate children and/or other branches scattered around Europe. They were close, most of the family living on
the hereditary estate with the exception of the transient full-time hunters,
but tough love was very much the word of the day. It had to be, given their family duty and the
sheer death rate. Technically the
Belmont family motto is Numquam Retro,
arched over the ancient family crest.
But for as long as Trevor can remember, the real family motto has been
this: no matter how good a Belmont is, there is always something just that
little bit better. Aut cum scuto aut in scuto, reads the legend over the family mausoleum,
either with shield or on shield, and
it is much truer. Belmonts come home
victorious, or they don’t come home.
Second of all, Trevor was the crowning
jewel of the Belmont family—a talented warrior from a young age, well-versed in
the bestiary, and devoted, so
devoted, to the ideal. No one becomes as
bitterly disillusioned as Trevor without having a long, long fall to get there.
Third of all, the Belmont family took
their excommunication as they had taken every attempt to stop them from serving
their duty: with stoic, stubborn disregard.
They received the Bull informing them of their banishment and replied
with a politely immovable “thank you but we’re rather too busy to be excommunicated
right now.” The Catholic Church
responded as was highly typical in the 1400’s.
Trevor was returning from an utterly
mundane errand into town, seeking some small gift for his baby sister’s first
kill, when he saw the smoke start to climb.
He reached the estate just in time to watch the fire bring the roof down
and cut the screaming short.
B: what I think is fucking hilarious
For the first little while of their
journey, Sypha and Alucard are relatively sure that their third member is the
muscle, the street-smarts, to their formal education.
Then Trevor busts out some fluent Latin
to translate a book and adds a snide insult for good measure, o salvator somnelente mi.
They are both dumbfounded, and Trevor rolls his eyes at them.
“The Belmonts weren’t just a bunch of
country drunks,” he points out, and tosses the book carelessly at Alucard. “We were scholars too. Carry that, would you?”
C: what is heart-crushing and awful but fun to inflict on friends
The three of them have been on the move,
hunting for Dracula’s castle, for a full month and a half when Alucard finds
Trevor sitting on watch outside the ransacked farmhouse they’ve claimed as
shelter from the weather. Normally, even
if he’s drinking or on watch or distracted, Alucard struggles to get the drop
on Trevor, which is far more of a statement about Belmont House’s skill than
Alucard suspects even Trevor himself realizes.
This time, Trevor jolts, even though Alucard takes care to make noise so
as not to alarm Sypha.
“Belmont?” Alucard asks, crouching down
to be on eye level with him. “Are you
all right?”
Trevor doesn’t respond—in all honesty, seems
to barely hear the question. “I had a
baby sister,” Trevor says distantly. “Older
twins, too, but my baby sister—she just killed her first werewolf about a year
and a week ago. I got back just in time
for the celebration.”
Alucard sits down beside him,
cautious. “That is quite an
achievement. How old was she?”
“Fourteen.” Trevor blinks, takes a deep breath and lets
it out, studies the moon with uncommon concentration. “She burned, a year ago, with my brother, and
my elder sister, and my parents, my cousins…”
“Ah,” Alucard says quietly, and does the
math. “Your family must have been quite
large.”
“Forty of us,” Trevor confirms. “And every single one of them died in that
fire.”
Alucard nods, and tucks his knees up so
that he can wrap his arms around them, and they sit there in the quiet for a
while. If there’s a trace of moisture
beading on Trevor’s lashes, neither of them mention it.
“I cannot imagine what it feels like,”
Alucard says at last, barely a whisper, “to lose so many loved ones to the
fire.”
“No,” Trevor confirms. “But you have a better idea than most.”
D: what would never work with canon but the canon is
shit so I believe it anyway
There’s not really enough canon to make a judgement one way or another, but.
I really fiercely want the more
intelligent demons—it’s clear that some, if not all, of the Night Horde are
human-level intelligent—to start to…remember.
Once upon a time the House of Belmont was the most feared force in Hell,
the levee that held back the tide of the supernatural from washing over the
majority of the populace. Now the levee
has been broken (burned) and the tidal wave is rushing in and the demons are
running free—
And some of them, meeting a
stubborn-jawed man with alcohol on his lips and the ancient crest on his chest,
think twice.
Thinking twice is, more often than not,
the last thing they do on this plane of existence, before the silver of Alucard’s
sword or Sypha’s power strikes them down, or before the last son of the House
of Belmont lashes out with whip and blade and holy water.
Those that escape spread the word:
despite the Church’s best efforts, there is still a Belmont abroad in the land,
and he has allies, and he is doing his
family proud.
Strange, perhaps, that the last Belmont
would be flattered by the rumors of a demon horde.
people in fanfiction are so good at identifying v specific smells. I literally struggle to identify vanilla when I’m sniffing a candle labelled “VANILLA” how are these kids getting woodsmoke, rain, mint, and a whiff of byronic despair from a fuckin tshirt
Once I read a fic where they were like “he tasted like” and I’m expecting the typical formula (1 cooking ingredient + 1 natural phenomenon + “something uniquely [character name]”) but instead they said “he tasted like mouth” and it was one of the greatest fic moments of my life
click and drag to find out what your shitty fanfiction kiss tastes like
all the reviews for atomic blonde are like “its an empty aesthetic film where charlize theron just dresses up in nice clothes, kicks the shit out of dudes, and has random sex scenes with women” as if that wasn’t my dream action movie
Anonymous asked: You did Nyota for the headcanon ask meme, can you do Bones?
Headcanon meme. Bones is my one true saltmate, okay, it’s
like a soulmate but with bitterness about the world. Also, this is a little bit gonna be the Jim
& Bones Friendship Hour.
A: what I think realistically
Bones actually has a very real phobia of
space. Like, he manages it. He does a good job managing it. But.
Listen.
In order to successfully graduate
Starfleet Academy, every student must take and pass a shuttle piloting class. In case of emergency. Pass proficiently,
not just scrape by on a wing and a prayer.
Bones fails twice and scrapes that pass the third time and honestly he’s
thinking about just giving up. He knows
all the settings and controls—Jim drilled him silly after that first fail—but getting
into the simulator and seeing all that black, and the pressure, he just. He locks
up. It’s all he can do to control his
breathing, never mind controlling the shuttle.
He can’t go back to Georgia and he can’t do this and where does that leave him?
Jim finds Bones in a tiny-ass little bar
the day before his fourth retest date and drags him protesting out the door,
about eight whiskeys down, and bundles him into bed and listens to him mumble
about how he’s never going to pass and he’s never going to graduate and
honestly fucking good because space
is the worst and Jim’s crazy for wanting to go there but also Jim’s going to go
into space without him and Bones
doesn’t have anywhere else to go and it’s all just really awful, you know what
I mean, Jimmy?
“Sure, buddy,” Jim says, propping Bones
up and pushing a glass of water into his hands.
“Drink something, okay?”
The next day, at 1500 hours, Bones
stumbles into the simulator room with—well, not the worst hangover of his life, but probably top ten. And lo and fucking behold, instead of the usual gaggle of students looking to (re)test,
there’s James Goddamn Kirk, hands stuffed in his pockets and a sunny-ass smile
on his smart-ass face. James Goddamn
Kirk, who passed his pilot’s test with glowing
scores on the first try.
James Goddamn Kirk, who somehow lied and
cheated his way in here so that he could sit in the simulator while Bones
sweats his way through a passing grade.
It doesn’t cure his phobia, obviously,
but the first time Bones does
actually have to pilot a shuttle, it’s James Goddamn Kirk bleeding out in the copilot’s
seat and Bones barely even notices his heart race.
B: what I think is fucking hilarious
Leonard McCoy, day one of his term at
the Academy as he stumbles, shaking and panting, off the shuttle, swears to himself
that he’s going to pry this blue-eyed limpet off him on the spot and also
sedate anyone who addresses him as Bones.
Day one of his second year at the
Academy, Bones McCoy gets half-tackled by Jim, who’s already talking about this badass new Tactics class they’re
offering, I’m gonna take it and I’m gonna destroy everyone, it’s gonna be
awesome and he has no idea how this happened.
What would have been day one of his
fourth year, Bones is fuck knows how
far into the black of space, listening to his crew tattle on Jim’s delinquent
ass.
“Doc, I don’t think he’s taken an off
shift in, like, a couple days maybe,” Sulu says as he passes through for an
antihistamine.
“I’ll work on it,” Bones says, and jabs
Sulu with a hypo. “Stop poking plants
you don’t recognize.”
“Doctor McCoy, Alpha shift told me to
tell you that the captain forgot to eat today,” Chekov reports, sticking his
head inside. “Can I get another screen?”
“I’ll deal with that,” Bones says, and
waves the kid in. “Stop sleeping with
people you don’t know.”
“Doctor, I would appreciate it if you
intervened in the Captain’s opinion that holodeck safety protocols are
optional,” Spock says evenly as Chapel checks him for broken ribs.
“I’ll do my best,” Bones says, and gives
Spock a bitter wave with the medical tricorder.
“Stop getting in fistfights,
you have a damn phaser.”
“Doctor,” Uhura starts as Bones sprints
past her. “I think the Captain might be
allergic–”
“I’m on my way!” he yells back over his
shoulder. “Stop Spock from causing a
diplomatic incident!”
“Doc,” Scotty starts, leaning into the
medbay and squinting painfully.
“I don’t want to hear it,” Bones snarls,
and gives Scotty a vengeful jab with a hangover hypo (actually a calibrated mix
of thiamine, folic acid, and magnesium sulfate, but listen, it’s a hangover
hypo) as he marches past toward the bridge.
Bones has Regrets.
C: what is heart-crushing and awful but fun to inflict on friends
Bones keeps expecting to get to a point
where he’s…like…past being horrified and shocked when one of the crew rolls in,
near death or already dead.
It wears on his soul like acid, every
time. He decides very early that he’s
going to leave Starfleet when Jim dies. The
longer he spends on the Enterprise, the more names he adds to that list (when
Spock dies, when Uhura dies, when Chekov-Sulu-Scotty dies).
Bones is a doctor, not an
adventurer. He’s not built to outlive
these people. When they are gone, he will never leave orbit again.
D: what would never work with canon but the canon is
shit so I believe it anyway
Read an AU once where Bones was a
humanitarian aid volunteer at like 21/22 who went to Tarsus IV and met furious,
half-starved, 13-year-old, fresh-off-a-genocide JT Kirk and it was my favorite
thing. It was also abandoned after like
two chapters. But like. Any intersection of my infinite feelings
about Tarsus IV and my infinite feelings about Bones & Jim (& Spock)
friendship is My Favorite Thing and I believe in my heart that this is true. Bones didn’t recognize him at the time and it
takes him years to connect the emaciated murderous kid with the electric blue
eyes to his buoyantly brilliant best friend, but he does, eventually. He asks Jim straight up, very late one night,
and they have one single conversation about it before they vow to never discuss
it again.
An SR-71 Blackbird once flew from LA to Washington DC in 64 minutes. Average speed of the flight: 2145mph.
“There were a lot of things we couldn’t do in an SR-71, but we were the fastest guys on the block and loved reminding our fellow aviators of this fact. People often asked us if, because of this fact, it was fun to fly the jet. Fun would not be the first word I would use to describe flying this plane. Intense, maybe. Even cerebral. But there was one day in our Sled experience when we would have to say that it was pure fun to be the fastest guys out there, at least for a moment.
It occurred when Walt and I were flying our final training sortie. We needed 100 hours in the jet to complete our training and attain Mission Ready status. Somewhere over Colorado we had passed the century mark. We had made the turn in Arizona and the jet was performing flawlessly. My gauges were wired in the front seat and we were starting to feel pretty good about ourselves, not only because we would soon be flying real missions but because we had gained a great deal of confidence in the plane in the past ten months. Ripping across the barren deserts 80,000 feet below us, I could already see the coast of California from the Arizona border. I was, finally, after many humbling months of simulators and study, ahead of the jet.
I was beginning to feel a bit sorry for Walter in the back seat. There he was, with no really good view of the incredible sights before us, tasked with monitoring four different radios. This was good practice for him for when we began flying real missions, when a priority transmission from headquarters could be vital. It had been difficult, too, for me to relinquish control of the radios, as during my entire flying career I had controlled my own transmissions. But it was part of the division of duties in this plane and I had adjusted to it. I still insisted on talking on the radio while we were on the ground, however. Walt was so good at many things, but he couldn’t match my expertise at sounding smooth on the radios, a skill that had been honed sharply with years in fighter squadrons where the slightest radio miscue was grounds for beheading. He understood that and allowed me that luxury.
Just to get a sense of what Walt had to contend with, I pulled the radio toggle switches and monitored the frequencies along with him. The predominant radio chatter was from Los Angeles Center, far below us, controlling daily traffic in their sector. While they had us on their scope (albeit briefly), we were in uncontrolled airspace and normally would not talk to them unless we needed to descend into their airspace.
We listened as the shaky voice of a lone Cessna pilot asked Center for a readout of his ground speed. Center replied: “November Charlie 175, I’m showing you at ninety knots on the ground.”
Now the thing to understand about Center controllers, was that whether they were talking to a rookie pilot in a Cessna, or to Air Force One, they always spoke in the exact same, calm, deep, professional, tone that made one feel important. I referred to it as the “ Houston Center voice.” I have always felt that after years of seeing documentaries on this country’s space program and listening to the calm and distinct voice of the Houston controllers, that all other controllers since then wanted to sound like that, and that they basically did. And it didn’t matter what sector of the country we would be flying in, it always seemed like the same guy was talking. Over the years that tone of voice had become somewhat of a comforting sound to pilots everywhere. Conversely, over the years, pilots always wanted to ensure that, when transmitting, they sounded like Chuck Yeager, or at least like John Wayne. Better to die than sound bad on the radios.
Just moments after the Cessna’s inquiry, a Twin Beech piped up on frequency, in a rather superior tone, asking for his ground speed. “I have you at one hundred and twenty-five knots of ground speed.” Boy, I thought, the Beechcraft really must think he is dazzling his Cessna brethren. Then out of the blue, a navy F-18 pilot out of NAS Lemoore came up on frequency. You knew right away it was a Navy jock because he sounded very cool on the radios. “Center, Dusty 52 ground speed check”. Before Center could reply, I’m thinking to myself, hey, Dusty 52 has a ground speed indicator in that million-dollar cockpit, so why is he asking Center for a readout? Then I got it, ol’ Dusty here is making sure that every bug smasher from Mount Whitney to the Mojave knows what true speed is. He’s the fastest dude in the valley today, and he just wants everyone to know how much fun he is having in his new Hornet. And the reply, always with that same, calm, voice, with more distinct alliteration than emotion: “Dusty 52, Center, we have you at 620 on the ground.”
And I thought to myself, is this a ripe situation, or what? As my hand instinctively reached for the mic button, I had to remind myself that Walt was in control of the radios. Still, I thought, it must be done - in mere seconds we’ll be out of the sector and the opportunity will be lost. That Hornet must die, and die now. I thought about all of our Sim training and how important it was that we developed well as a crew and knew that to jump in on the radios now would destroy the integrity of all that we had worked toward becoming. I was torn.
Somewhere, 13 miles above Arizona, there was a pilot screaming inside his space helmet. Then, I heard it. The click of the mic button from the back seat. That was the very moment that I knew Walter and I had become a crew. Very professionally, and with no emotion, Walter spoke: “Los Angeles Center, Aspen 20, can you give us a ground speed check?” There was no hesitation, and the replay came as if was an everyday request. “Aspen 20, I show you at one thousand eight hundred and forty-two knots, across the ground.”
I think it was the forty-two knots that I liked the best, so accurate and proud was Center to deliver that information without hesitation, and you just knew he was smiling. But the precise point at which I knew that Walt and I were going to be really good friends for a long time was when he keyed the mic once again to say, in his most fighter-pilot-like voice: “Ah, Center, much thanks, we’re showing closer to nineteen hundred on the money.”
For a moment Walter was a god. And we finally heard a little crack in the armor of the Houston Center voice, when L.A. came back with, “Roger that Aspen, Your equipment is probably more accurate than ours. You boys have a good one.”
It all had lasted for just moments, but in that short, memorable sprint across the southwest, the Navy had been flamed, all mortal airplanes on freq were forced to bow before the King of Speed, and more importantly, Walter and I had crossed the threshold of being a crew. A fine day’s work.
We never heard another transmission on that frequency all the way to the coast.”
-Brian Schul, Sled Driver: Flying The World’s Fastest Jet
and the guy in the F18 learns, as most people eventually do:
you will never, ever, be safe in assuming that you are the biggest fish
you can think you’re hot shit, but if you start trying to show off, someone bigger will come along. someone who doesn’t care, and who thinks you’re being a dumbass.
i’d say the takehome is: if you want to continue being proud of being the F-15 in your airspace, maybe don’t brag on it too much, because somewhere out there is a Blackbird who thinks crushing your ego is a fun teambuilding exercise.
There is a 1970s horror movie that is about giant bunny rabbits
now it was 1972 so they didn’t have green screen or anything like that so they just had build Rabbit sized models for them to mess up to seem giant. If you’ve ever seen Rabbits you know that while they’re pretty destructive little guys it’s rarely very showy so there’s a lot of moments where they’re meant to be destroying things and it’s just a bunch of rabbits half-heartedly standing around and giving a little hop.
Oh did I mention that one of the film’s stars is DeForest Kelley?
That’s right Doctor Bones McCoy was once in a movie about giant bunnies
Sophie is highly suspicious of Maggie a
while. Not because of Nate, just
because. Because Maggie is Maggie. Because Maggie is good and honorable and
honest and Sophie is…Sophie is not those things. Sophie is a criminal and her thefts might not
have hurt anyone, but sometimes she thinks about little children with stolen
artifacts, about the look on her team’s faces when they realized she’d played
them, and wonders what the fallout pattern of her life looks like. Maggie surely doesn’t have to think about
that (Sophie is wrong about this) and Sophie cannot understand why someone like
that would willingly put herself in the middle of all this.
Sophie gets past this, of course. Maggie, she comes to realize, is just. Maggie.
She is good and honorable and honest, and just as furious and steely and
brilliant and cold-eyed as her ex-husband.
So obviously Sophie sleeps with
her. It’s a good fling, all intimacy and
affection with absolutely no romance, and Sophie is lying in bed when Maggie
bends down to kiss her forehead and say, “I hope things work out with you and
Nate. You’re too good for him.”
“Of course I am,” Sophie sniffs. “We both are.”
B: what I think is fucking hilarious
To be COMPLETELY clear, Nate gets Sophie’s
wedding ring engraved with ‘Your Name Here’ even though he knows! He fucking knows! He knows her real name! He knows all her titles and ranks and everything
(you’ll never tell me that Sophie isn’t actually
a British noblewoman okay) and yet!
Fucking! Your Name Here!
They have to pause the service so that
Sophie can stop laughing.
C: what is heart-crushing and awful but fun to inflict on friends
Sophie really wants to be in love, but she’s…she’s afraid of
the part between being strangers and being in love. It’s so vulnerable, putting little bits of
yourself out there one at a time and waiting to see if the other person is
going to slap you down. She wonders,
every time she sits down with a new person, what they would think of the real
her, and she opens her mouth to say “my name is Sophie Devereaux” and instead
some other name pops out. And in the
end, inevitably, she slips up, gets too comfortable and shows a bit of the
wrong self and…
Well, there she is again. Wanting to be in love and sitting down to
introduce herself and giving the wrong name.
D: what would never work with canon but the canon is
shit so I believe it anyway
Um…I honestly have no idea, so instead
here’s an AU I want.
I want a mutant AU where Sophie is a
metamorph a la Mystique, and her ‘Sophie’
face isn’t actually…her real face. Like,
she thinks of it as her real face. It’s
the face she always wears when they’re not doing a con. Even when they are doing a con she doesn’t like to depart too far from it. But when she was a kid she had a different
face, and she shifted whenever she could, into whoever she wanted, and then one
day she was standing in front of a mirror and shifting back and she…couldn’t
quite remember what color her eyes were.
Hazel, or mahogany? Black lashes
or brown? Did her skin have pink or
yellow undertones?
Sophie Devereaux wears a face assembled
out of her favorite features. She takes
a picture of that face, the moment she fixes it the way she likes it, and keeps
the picture beside her mirror so that she can always get it right.
